


John's in trouble. Must be Tuesday.

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Crack, Gen, Humor, Kidnapped John, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has Sidekicks Anonymous on speed-dial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's in trouble. Must be Tuesday.

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ Comm Watson's Woes July 2011 prompt (Enclosed spaces).

"Sherlock Holmes. Here in my lair, at long last." Jim smiled his pleasant soulless smile. "A simple bargain. If you ever want to find your _pet_ again, you'll do as I say."

"You have John in that cast-iron safe to your right," Sherlock responded. "You've tied his hands."

A metallic bang from inside the wall of the safe, and a muffled grunt.

"Excuse me, you've handcuffed him. Sorry, John," Sherlock called.

The safe gave a noncommittal noise.

Moriarty's expression at that moment would be best described as that of profound … disappointment. Recovering his _sang-froid_ as best he could, he tried again. "Just so. And you'll never get the combination unless you do exactly what –"

A series of metallic clangs once again. Bang bang bang scrape. Scrape bang scrape. And so forth.

"Thirty-two left, seventeen right, one left," Sherlock translated. "I'm sorry, Jim, you were saying?"

Really, really profound disappointment now. "Don't you feel…" Jim stopped and cleared his throat, deepened his voice a touch. "…well, just a little bit of _warmth_ around your heart right now?"

"Duffumph phaph phumm!" the safe said.

"An unimpeachable source, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock said smoothly.

Jim Moriarty's face contorted with rage. "Just how much air do you think is left in that little cast-iron _coffin_ I've thrown your friend in?" He bit off the "d" sound in "friend," hatefully emphasizing the singular nature of that state.

"How many times has John been taken captive by someone trying to influence my behaviour?" Sherlock responded.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang –

"John, that was rhetorical," Sherlock called, and the noises stopped. "You see, he's become quite good at getting kidnapped. It's become tedious, frankly – I have to stop whatever I'm working on and go have yet another confrontation with an _unimaginative_ criminal."

Oh, that one stung.

"And here's where you lose your temper and pull out a gun," Sherlock said even as Moriarty brought up the SIG and aimed the barrel between his eyes, hand shaking. "Unfortunately, you're as addicted to this game we're playing as I am. Kill me, Jim, and the game is over. Likewise, if you kill John I stop playing the game; the game is over.

"Call it a draw, and leave before you get hurt."

"I have the upper hand! It's I who have the gun on you! What can you do to –"

THUD.

It's impossible to maintain a cool, villainous façade when a 500-lb cast-iron safe tips over onto both your feet at once.

"AAH! SHIT! OH CHRIST! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

Sherlock collected the dropped gun, opened the safe, picked the lock on John's cuffs, and left him to gasp on the floor by Jim's pinned, doubled-over and cursing form while he methodically gathered an armful of incriminating folders and papers from various hiding places in the room. "Can you stand?"

"In a minute." John stretched out, grimacing and rubbing his wrists, taking deep breaths. "Takes a while to come up out of that breathing trance. Jim, you wouldn't have a teapot around here, would you?"

"I wouldn't drink anything available here." Only then did Sherlock deign to look at the contorted figure of the consulting criminal whining in pain, and the expression on his face was pure pity. "Did you really think this would work a second time? You weren't even the first person to strap explosives to his chest – that honour fell to a Taliban lieutenant in Kabul." Sherlock smiled mirthlessly as a shark. "That wasn't raw courage that drove him to attack you that night, that was boredom."

"Right, you done?" John had pulled himself to his feet. "I've got to get home and crack the blog – I always get a lot of good writing done in my head during these things."

"I've got what I came here for. Oh, and you too."

"Bastard."

Sherlock smirked and took his papers downstairs to hail a cab.

"Oh, I nearly forgot." John stood in front of Jim who was barely able to stay upright, or to focus through tears of pain. He smiled pleasantly. "Left or right, Jim?"

Jim made an inquiring whimper.

"You kidnapped a Royal Army man and strapped a bomb to his chest. I'm going to demonstrate what I did to the Taliban who did that to me." John pulled out his Swiss Army knife and opened the largest blade.

"You get to keep one. Left testicle, or right?"

***  



End file.
